Painting Klavier's Nails
by TennisWriter456
Summary: I don't know how I got into that kind of situation. Don't ask, because I don't know. It's scientifically unexplainable. But somehow, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon two days before the murder trial of a man whose name I didn't bother to remember, I found myself sitting on the floor of Klavier Gavin's office, painting his nails.


**Hello! This is just a little oneshot I wanted to write. I just LOVE this couple. ^,^**

**Thanks for visiting, enjoy!**

* * *

Painting Klavier's nails

"Hey, Fräulein, would you do me a favor?"

"Um, okay. What is it?"

"Would you paint my nails?"

* * *

I don't know how I got into that kind of situation. Don't ask, because I don't know. It's scientifically unexplainable. But somehow, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon two days before the murder trial of a man whose name I didn't bother to remember, I found myself sitting on the floor of Klavier Gavin's office painting his nails—with clear nail polish, but still. It was strange to say the least.

I was soaked to the bone when I walked into his office and I had my precious bag of Snackoos hidden beneath my lab coat. As soon as I was safely inside of that office, I pulled the bag out and placed a Snackoo on my tongue; see, they're kind of like stress relievers to me. It's almost become a habit to just eat one after another. Scientifically speaking, it's strange that I'm not grossly overweight by now.

He was sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the room against that big window. I've always liked that window because it seems like you can see the whole world from there. He's told me that he enjoys sitting by the window instead of at his desk because when it's nice out, he can feel the sun on his skin, and when it's dark out, he likes to work under the natural light of the moon and stars. So I was kind of confused when I saw him sitting there on that particular day since it was so rainy and gloomy and downright depressing.

I don't even remember what I initially went there to do. Discuss the case, most likely. My testimony, the evidence, things like that. We didn't end up doing any of that. I was confused because I'd never been in that kind of atmosphere with Klavier Gavin before; I generally avoided his company on the basis that he was a glimmerous fop and he often got in my way during investigations, so I had never had the chance to really talk to him. Not until that day, at least.

I had been in his office plenty of times before, but that was the first time I really looked at it. It wasn't the most organized place, but I can't say my office looked much better most of the time. There were sheets of music scattered among witness statements and pieces of evidence and profiles, and I could barely tell what was what. I'm guessing that he liked it that way, because he always looked comfortable in his office.

The strangest thing I noticed (though it wasn't really that strange now that I think about Klavier's personality) was the number of guitars he had lying around. Some were hung on the wall, some were on the floor, and all of them were polished beautifully with different colors and patterns. One was blue, one was purple, one was literally sparkling. It almost looked like a museum of guitars, preserved to showcase the wonders of Klavier's musical talents...

Except for one guitar. It was an orange one. It was leaning on the window beside him, and it was scratched up and the strings were broken and it was dented. The complete opposite of every single other guitar.

But the weirdest thing, even weirder than all of those guitars, was Klavier. I mean, he's not your average prosecutor, or even your average _person_, really, but something was off. I could tell as soon as I stepped inside, clutching my Snackoos for dear life, that the air in the room was heavy. I could feel it—I can't explain it scientifically, but everything felt tense. It felt sad. And sad is not a word I would usually associate with Klavier Gavin. I had never felt that before: just walking into a room and feeling my entire soul being weighed down by _something_. Something I couldn't explain.

"Hi, Fräulein."

"Hello."

"Come. Sit with me."

I'd never seen him sitting on the floor like that. He was usually up and about, pacing, running his hands through his shimmering blond hair and smiling at everyone and everything. I always felt strangely welcome walking into his office. Even Apollo, a _defense _attorney, mentioned to me once that being in Klavier's office felt like being home in a way. But on that day, as rain poured down and I tried to drown out the sound of the dense atmosphere with my own chewing, he was sitting completely still with a very unusual expression on his face. Everything in the room was dark, but I don't mean that literally.

His eyes were closed and his head was leaning back against the window, and that smile was gone. His lips were set in a straight line. I thought it was really weird. I was slow and cautious as I made my way over to him, maneuvering around the papers and guitars and shadows of nothing that were playing on the ground and on the walls. I sat down cross-legged across from him with my Snackoos in my lap.

I have a special nickname for Klavier Gavin: glimmerous fop. But he was the furthest thing from a glimmerous fop that day. For one thing, I couldn't see that sparkle in his eyes—even when he finally opened them, they were empty. Dull. Sad. Not a bright blue, but a blank blue. And his hair was falling in messy blond strands around his face as if he hadn't brushed it in days, and knowing him, that was highly unusual. His jacket was in a crumpled heap on the floor beside him, and his shirt was unbuttoned almost all the way. Everything about him was quietly, almost silently, pleading. I felt uneasy looking at him, watching him sit there in such a...lonely way. That's the best way to describe it, I guess. Lonely.

"What's up?" I asked. It was the only thing I could think to say.

"It's raining."

I started eating more Snackoos to avoid saying much else. That was when he opened his eyes and looked at me. And then asked me to paint his nails. A strange turn of events.

"Hey, Fräulein, would you do me a favor?"

"Um, okay. What is it?"

"Would you paint my nails?"

"You want me to...paint your nails?"

Klavier nodded and smiled. Not his wide smile, not the one that made me squirm, but his soft smile. It was nicer than I remembered. Subtle and gentle, as if he were speaking to me as his best friend in the whole world. That was something unique about Klavier; even if he hated you, he could make you feel like he loved you more than anyone else—even if you didn't love him back. He would say things that were so specifically flattering, and during conversations he would touch your arm or squeeze your hand for a single moment. Just long enough to make you feel comfortable and at ease with him. Me being me, though, it usually just made me angry. And yet, his happiness was contagious in a weird, scientifically unexplainable way. And I hate scientifically unexplainable things because in my mind, science is everything.

But his smile that day was still sad. Everything was so sad. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I'm a pretty good detective, and using science has become like an art to me, but in that particular situation I was just clueless. I'm not usually clueless.

I ate my Snackoos more vigorously.

"Here's the nail polish."

Klavier reached into his pocket and handed me a fancy bottle of expensive nail polish. At least, it looked expensive to me. I held it in my hand for a couple of moments, trying to wrap my head around what was happening. _I_ don't even wear nail polish (scientifically, there's really no reason for anyone to do so). And I couldn't remember seeing Klavier wearing it before.

"Please, Fräulein Detective. This is important to me."

His voice was tense and pleading, and he furrowed his brow in such a desperate, wrinkled way.

"Ema," I said.

"...Excuse me?"

"Just call me Ema. That's my name."

That might have been the first time that I really, genuinely, sincerely smiled back at Klavier Gavin. He just looked so sad and lonely that I didn't know what else to do. Isn't it true scientifically that smiling itself makes you happier?

"And what a beautiful name it is."

I wanted so badly to hate him for saying that, looking at me with those big, innocent, sad eyes. But I couldn't. I know it sounds strange, but for the first time, I felt for Klavier Gavin. I don't know what he was sad about or why the air was so tense or why there was a banged up guitar or why he wanted me to paint his nails, but I felt for him. So I smiled again. And he smiled back, but that smile was weird. Not just weird, but the absolute weirdest.

When Klavier Gavin smiles at you, he makes you feel as if the smile is just for you. As if he specifically tailored that smile for your needs—and I'm not one to be easily flattered by things like that. But when he smiled back at me at that particular moment, it wasn't just a feeling. I _knew_ that the smile was for me. But it was more than that...it was like a cry for help. Something so heartbreaking that I was frozen.

He lifted his left hand and leaned his head back against the window, and it almost looked like the rain was falling around him. His silhouette was nice.

I was really nervous about grabbing his hand. It looked picturesque, like the way every person would want his or her hand to look. But I saw that the rings he always wore weren't there. (I realized later that they were strewn about the room among the papers and guitars, having been thrown there in despair, along with his necklace.) And when I looked down at my own hands, usually so steady, they were shaking. Don't ask me why the atmosphere, the dense air, affected me so profoundly, because I don't know. But it really did. The sadness I felt emanating from Klavier kind of seeped into me, I guess. And by the time I finally held his hand, the brush of nail polish in my other hand, I grabbed it really tightly. I thought he would need it.

I squeezed his fingers in mine, not harshly, I don't think. I didn't really know what to say, so holding his hand tightly like that was the only thing I could think to do. I have no idea what came over me, I really don't. He closed his eyes when I held his hand, and his breathing got heavier, as if he were holding something really terrible inside of his chest. My heart was breaking—and for someone I had practically sworn to dislike? It was almost frightening.

I began stroking his fingers with my thumb. It was like a reflex. We just sat like that for a minute, him against the window and me perfectly across from him, listening to the rain and the tense beating of our hearts. Him, breathing heavily and closing his eyes; me, stroking his hand and smiling. Like I said, I'd never been in an atmosphere like that with Klavier Gavin, so I felt extremely out of place. But at the same time, it felt perfect.

After that minute of odd, perfect imperfection, I began to paint his nails. The nail polish smelled nice and it made his nails shine. His skin felt nice, too. It was smooth, warm, welcoming. I'd never touched anyone and felt like that. And feeling his skin, watching him breathe and look so beautifully sacrificial with that halo of rain, I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to hear him tell me why everything was so sad.

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Why is that guitar all dented?"

"Are you talking about the orange one?"

"Yes, that one. All of your other ones are so nice."

Klavier chuckled and took another deep breath, but kept his eyes closed.

"I ruined it."

"You...ruined it?"

"Ja. I hit it against the floor and cut the strings."

"But why? Why do that to one of your own guitars?"

He chuckled again, and the darkness of the sound gave me shivers.

"Oh, it's not mine. It's Daryan's."

I remembered that Daryan was the murderer of that case. The one with the blind singer and the Borginian pianist. He also worked as a detective, so I'd spoken to him a couple of times...

Then I remembered that he was the guitarist of The Gavinners. And Klavier's best friend.

I squeezed his hand more tightly and finished painting the nails on his left hand.

"I'm sorry."

Klavier gave me his other hand and I held that one just as tightly. I wasn't confused about the guitar anymore.

"Can I ask you another question?"

"Of course."

"Why am I painting your nails right now?"

There was a long pause, and I wanted to reach into my bag of Snackoos and fill my mouth with them, but my hands were full. Klavier finally opened his eyes, those desperate blue eyes, and looked right into mine.

"Kristoph liked to wear this nail polish. I always refused to try it."

"It smells nice."

"Yes. It does."

I hadn't realized that I'd stopped painting and was stroking his fingers again.

"Kristoph is your brother, right?"

"I suppose he is, ja."

His tone was horribly sorrow. And his smile was resigned—almost invisible. If I didn't already know him well, I might not have even seen it. I tightened my grip on his hand because his eyes were telling me to. They were talking to me, telling me how sad he truly was. How lonely.

"They cared about you," I said. I didn't know if that was actually true. But it seemed like the only thing that would make him feel any better. His smile grew a little bit bigger. "What they did, what happened to them...it doesn't mean anything. They both love you."

"Even if they do..." Klavier lifted his hand (the one that I wasn't holding) and ran it through his hair. He always does that in such a glimmerous way...but he did it in such a tired way then. And for the first time, I saw tears shimmering on the edge of his eyes. "It doesn't matter. They're gone."

I knew now why the air was heavy. I knew why Klavier Gavin was like a shadow, huddled against the rainy window of his office. I knew why I felt uneasy and why the entire atmosphere of loneliness was permeating into my own mind. I knew why I felt for him, why I agreed to paint his nails for him.

It was because Klavier Gavin was terribly, terribly lonely.

And I knew that feeling all too well.

"They're gone," he mumbled again. "They're both gone."

I did something very out of character at that point. I mean, I had been acting pretty unusual that whole day, but maybe walking into that room had pushed a button inside of my brain. Don't ask me to explain scientifically—or even in English—because I don't think that's possible. It's just not. But when Klavier said those words and ran his hand through his hair, appearing as if he was going to start crying, I did the only thing that seemed right. Because I felt like I was going to start crying...for me and for him.

The tears started streaming down his cheeks just as I put my hands there. I pressed my thumbs against the corners of his eyes, brought my face so close to his that I could feel his breath. It was the first time that I remember thinking about how beautiful he actually is.

"Ema," he murmured. I was on my knees at that point, my forehead was against his, and I was losing sight of everything else. Absolutely everything. "How do my nails look?"

"Wonderful, Klavier," I responded. "Just wonderful."

And then I kissed him.

I tried to kiss him in a gentle, passionate way that would comfort him. And I'm not going to lie (as much as I wish I could), but I didn't have to try. It came naturally...the gentleness, the passion. It was there without me having to think about it. I know now that I really, really, _really_ wanted to kiss him. And when I did, it felt perfect.

"You're not alone," I whispered when I pulled away. Then I figured out why Klavier was sitting by the window even though it was rainy: the rain was hauntingly lovely. "You're never alone."

The tears stopped running from his eyes and between my fingers. Klavier let his hands rest on the base of my neck, and they were so warm.

"No." He touched my lips and his eyes started sparkling again. But I stopped avoiding eye contact and trying to convince myself that I hated him. It was useless. "I'm not alone."

I kissed him again—hard. When I breathed out, he breathed in, and when he pulled me onto his lap, I couldn't feel the sadness as strongly. It was fading.

I thought that maybe it should've felt wrong. But it didn't feel wrong. It felt right. Very, very right.

"Ema, will you do me another favor?" he murmured into my ear.

I nodded, brushing strands of blond hair away from those glimmerous blue eyes.

"Stay with me tonight. So I'm not alone."

"You're never alone, remember, glimmerous fop?"

He laughed as I wrapped my arms around his neck and held him.

"Right, Fräulein Detective." He placed his lips to my temple and stroked my hair. "Right."

I figured that painting Klavier's nails hadn't been such a bad idea after all.


End file.
